Balls of Fire

Every workforce needs to celebrate what it does. There are expos, conventions, award shows, galas, and balls. And the only way to celebrate the working men of porn and rent, is the most latter (read: balls). And so we have Hustlaball.

From the stories I had heard of the party, and my friends who seem to float around those parties, it was a decently naughty soiree, where nudity was encouraged. So instantly I was attracted to it. Going around midnight, my friend and I weren't too disappointed by the crowd gathering to get in. But it wasn't the crowd I was looking at. It was the boy (behind the fantastic drag queen, mind you) that was going down the will call list. And apparently, I wasn't alone in the soft-light dream sequence. When he looked up my name, he gave me the pick up line, "Oh, ok, we have a new policy where you have to leave your phone number...if I want you to." Which I did. And he told me to wait for him to get off at some point.

So, I knew I was going to stay for a long, long time at this party. Yet my new found love wouldn't stop me from having naked fun.

We got in and the crowds were crowding about like a crowd would. And that seemed to be about that. At midnight, the party hadn't really set off. So I decided to use my powers of nudity to try and sway people to do the right thing. There wasn't a lot of nudity to be had at the party like I had thought, but things eventually started to pick up (and go down....on me).


I ran to see my beau a few times, and he wasn't too intimidated by me and my nakedness. And then, while the party was mostly just all right, things got interesting.

Remember how I said I like to get naked and all these wonderous, joyful things happen? Yeah, sometimes things backfire. And backfire, LITERALLY.

In the back of the club, unbeknowst to most, someone decided to smoke and put their cigarette in the trash. Smart. And thusly, in the back, a fire bagan. As I was cavorting and swinging my cock around, a bouncer came up to me, and not looking down, started to push me out telling everyone to get out of the club because of a fire. I managed to sneak around and stay in the club, and one of the performers gave me some extra underwear to save me from TOO much embarrassment and/or arrest from the group of police and firemen waiting outside the club.

So there I was. Outside, in my underwear, and other than the "special guests", the only one not in clothes. Worst of all, my man was nowhere in sight. When I felt everything was bleak, something happened. A crowd started gathering around the fire truck. And there in front of the trucks, the drag queen began to perform. It was hilariously memorable.

My love came around while people were allowed to go back in, and he stopped to tell me that I should go on without him, because this fire stuff was going to keep him too busy till the morning, and that I should call him soon. And after all that excitement, I was exhausted, so I grabbed my clothes and left.

And the next day, I called him, and there was another fire. *wink*

Carols Morales LIVE at the COCK this Sunday!

Shall We Bath?

There's a fairly long running party that's been switching owners. First started by someone homo I don't know, it wasn't well advertised and was held in the remote location of the South Street Seaport, where most native New Yorkers fear to tread. Thus Baña was saved by the party promoting expertise of Daniel Nardicio. His skillful promotions (promising naked boys and the possibility of gay butt sex) brought the party into the light, and it became quite popular.

However, the light is a bad place to have lewd and perverse acts happen, since police raids are bound to follow. (You'd think he would have learned after what happened at what was formerly The Slide.)

With Baña's popularity way up, it's closing couldn't have come at a worse time. Still, they say the harder to wait, the better to have. Dangling the carrot (penis) in front of the donkey (ass {gay men}) long enough, Michael "Formika" Jones restarted the party once again. And so it's stayed that way for a few months now, and until last week, I had never gone.

It's one of those parties that plays with the idea behind the classic fantasy of what happens in a bath house. Well, not so much as an idea OR a fantasy as much as it makes it happen. Like everyone else there, I checked my civilian clothes (so unlike me ). Having worn my finest square-cut bathing suit, I was ready to partake in the poolside festivities.

In 5 minutes, the suit was around my ankles.

In the middle of my ventures, I found myself in a steam room being yelled at about some show starting. Thinking it to be more sex, I pulled the boys off me like leeches trying to train my blood, and walked to the stage that was set up. To my surprise, it was no sex show.
No, it was Lady Bunny.

Her performance, while long, was a hilarious remix of her own parodies of popular hits (and it was long). Laughter is indeed the best medicine, because after her punchline exit, I found myself a little more energized, and continue my ventures.

So many hot boys, so I can't go into all the details, but needless to say, I haven't stayed out till 6am in a long, long time.

Celeb Watch Tuesdays: Day One: It Takes A Village (Person)

About two years ago, a friend of mine told me a story that changed my life (for like 3 months): There is a famed gay nightclub called Beige, held at the historic East Village bar/restaurant BBar every Tuesday. This club was well known for attracting all varieties of the celebrity community. Now, one night, while he was out gallivanting about the bar with his friends, he came across my teen dream, Danny Roberts, of Real World New Orleans fame. One thing led to another, but my friend ended up having a magical evening of talking, and eventually fucking, with Danny (and his boyfriend Paul).

This began my campaign of going to Beige every week, searching for my piece of the (Danny) pie. I only stopped because I couldn't afford to pay $8 a drink (x4) every freaking Tuesday night.

However, I recently decided to rededicate myself to this cause, not just for Danny, but for all celebs, as I am a bit of a celeb whore. Thus, I begin my campaign once again: CelebWatch '08.

^{Brad Evans and Lars}
Upon my first night, the club was pumping with beats and fashonistas, as it was still Fashion Week. Divas were vogue-ing, designers were giving face, and there I was trying to search out my first victim, $8 beer in hand.

I came across Michael Musto first, whom kept running away every time I was coming close to approaching him with a question. He only got away because the bar was packed shoulder to shoulder. But I wasn't going to sleep with him, oh no.

I found some of my friends hanging around, trying to rub elbows with the fiercest famed fashion faces, but I wasn't up for that bounty of rags. I managed to find my porn-star friend Lars, along with porn starlet, Brad Evans. I hung around with them a bit, until at around 3, I gave up on my quest. Defeated, I asked Brad (Lars had left), if he wanted to go to The Cock with me.

Tuesdays at The Cock, while still sleazy, are not quite as fun. We stuck it out, though, and eventually, I got a celebrity encounter worth writing home about: Randy Jones of the Village People talked to me (and felt me up). Not the most "Macho Man" (lolz!) in the world, but who can say no to him?

^{Randy Jones (the Cowboy) and Yours Truly}
No, of course I didn't go home with him. I decided to go for the porn starlet instead. There's some defense mechanism that keeps me from taking off my clothes for someone my parents had idolized when they were kids...

Is This A Dagger I See Before Me? Nope. It's a Cock.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Another Another Gay Movie

After being booked with my first week back to school (eh, get it? Book…school…ehhh), I thought it would be good to celebrate the 3 R’s with the 3 B’s: booze, bitches, and boys (comma naked).

After sitting around, thinking of what to do, I received a text from a friend, like an edict from the gay gods, telling me I would be finding the bounty I sought if I went to see a movie. Not just any movie, though: Todd Steven’s Another Gay Sequel (which is the aptly named sequel to Another Gay Movie).

The media blitz (read: what I saw in HX) had apparently brought out many cinemaphiles out to the premier. After seeing the first movie and hearing about the problems with shooting the film (3/4 of the original cast had left the film), I wasn’t jumping at getting a ticket for the movie like everyone else. Which was a problem, as when I did go buy a ticket, I found it to be sold it.

Fate, however, wasn’t going to allow me to get out of it so easily, and my friend Eric presented me with an extra ticket. The gay gods had spoken.

We made our way into the theater, and saw that it was indeed sold out. However, my friend Andy had saved us a few seats, so we planted our asses thusly so. And after having a nip from my friend’s flask (booze!), I was ready to watch the movie. The seat I decided to set my feet on belonged to none other than Barbie-doppelganger Amanda Lepore (bitches!), who explained to me that she was in the cast. Sounded star-studded to me.

As the movie began, we were treated to two boys fucking right on the screen (boys comma naked!). Now I was ready for AGS. And it turned out to be way better than the first movie, and I liked it!
I won’t give too much of the movie away, but there is a fantastic puke scene, and wonderful performances by Scott Thompson, Perez Hilton (surprising, I know), and Dirty Sanchez (you’ll see).


^{Jake Mosser(Andy), Dir. Todd Stevens, and Aaron Michael Davies (Griff)}
Part of the other reason I was summoned to this premiere was also because I’m well acquainted with Todd Stevens (read that as you will). So, being friends with him, I was invited to the after party. We made our way to the Chelsea Hotel where the party was being held (I had the best AND worst sex of my life in that hotel). Some of the cast was there, excitingly. After a few drinks, I gathered the courage to “try my luck” with Jake Mosser (so we share a name, what else I wonder), who played Andy.

Upon approaching him, I congratulated him and made some small talk, as you would with anyone you want to see naked. As I was about to show him what I wanted to do with him using my finger, a girl walked up and grabbed his hand. If I didn’t doubt it then, it was their tongues touching that made me sure I wasn’t going to get him in my bed tonight.

And so, I had to find other things to do with my hand.

Küte ünderhosen

When dealing with party promotions, you have to advertise with something eye catching, catchy, and remain simple. With a name like "Küte," G Lounge not only allures me with simplistic promise of something in the non-ugly category, but it also appeals to my love of all things Germanic, with its clever use of the umlaut. And who better to drag along with me than my German pornstar friend Lars.

Lately, I've been finding it hard to drag me away from my XBox 360 and PC. I've been finding hooking up while playing a round of Team Fortress 2 is about as easy as it is on Manhunt, if you know the right way to ROFL, but my friend John talked me into coming to one of his hot sex parties (and this was no different). There is nothing like a hot gangbang to refresh your taste for shirt staining adventure (which tastes a little sweet and a little salty).



With Lars in tow, we ventured out to G Lounge, no goals in mind, really, except to drink, catch up, and enjoy the thoroughfare as it were. As we walked in, I was given a lesson in German, being told that "Küte" means nothing. After a few minutes of slapstick style humor, it was finally cemented into my head that it means nothing and not "nothing." I also learned to say the useful phrase "Ich have kleine ünderhosen en."

For once, in my eyes, it had lived up to it's name of "lounge." It wasn't too packed at 10:30, and we were able to sit and relax. My prior visits were met with a full bar, long waits for drinks, and cramped moving, which I used to cop feels of hot guys.

After much talking and catching up with Lars, I took a gander around. The general crowd of G is, for some, a bit cliquey, but being generally unafraid of the gay population (isn't that "homophobia?"), I considered getting up to talk to a cute boy I saw from across the room. I looked over at a white guy who had corn rows, so instantly I thought of my homelands Iowa. While definitely looking strange, he had an air about him. He looked, like many of the people in the bar, important.

So I got up and puffed up my chest, looking confident, and strode across the room to strike up a conversation with the boy. In retrospect, puffing up my chest while wearing a Superman t-shirt might look a little on the geeky side. Needless, as I approached the boy, another came up to him, and excitedly, they kissed. Not just a friendly "Oh, I'm so excited to see you!," a long, tongue licking, love of my life kiss.

I made a B-line for the bathroom directly behind them. Upon my return, when Lars said he was tired, I concurred and followed him out. And truly, in an un-disappointing ironic way, Küte lived up to it's name: there were cute boys, good drinks, I went home with some German sausage still.

I'm ready for my close up.

If you want to see this guy naked, just click on this LINK.

Don't say I didn't "warn" you....

I Went To New Jersey and Lived to Tell

by Diego

Oh, the metal structures, the outlet malls, the vast stretches of asphalt, the Versailles-esque gardens. You just gotta love the place Jersey occupies in America's collective unconscious. So I just had to go there and see it for myself. This is the premise: spoiled Manhattan boy who had never ventured out of the civilized borough decides to visit infamous New Jersey. It was the post-colonial bottom in me lusting after some fresh blue collar meat. So I called my friend Brian, a Jersey native, to show me around. If the guys weren't that hot, at least they would be less plastic than Manhattan queens -- and the whole thing would make it for a memorable anthropological survey. Like field work.

Brian decided to take me to Feathers, the most happening bar west of the Meatpacking District, apparently. The minute we left the city the cultural differences became apparent in Jersey's architecture: it's all long stretches of highway with huge department stores and gas stations sprinkled along the way. Did you know it's illegal to pump your own gas in Jersey? You can marry a fag but you can't pump your own gas.


Anyway, they have a lot of asphalt in Jersey, and nothingness. But it's a peaceful kind of nothingness, surrounded by trucks, dogs and big homes that would cost 10 grand a month in Manhattan but probably rent for $200 in Hackensack or whatever. The size can be very alluring. Coming from my $5,000-a-month tiny loft in TriBeCa and staring at so much couch space makes one wonder if it's worth leaving the first world to save a few thousand dollars a month. "Don't even think about it", says my hag.

But Jersey is much more than spacious duplexes and all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurants. It does have an amazing view of Manhattan. But who needs a view of paradise if you can actually live inside of it?

Feathers, however, was a big disappointment. Think Wisconsin lesbian bar meets Utah mining furnace meets Iowa outhouse. Where have all the hot brick-layer tops gone? I was imagining inked-up truck drivers with killer bods and cigarette breath calling me babydoll and professional movers with coarse hands begging to feel up the Manhattan princess. That's definitely not what I got . That and they don't carry Smirnoff Ice -- it hasn't arrived there yet.

Not that I didn't blow some nasty old fuck in the bathroom, just to get my 4-dollars of cover charge worth. But still, I was hoping to come back married, or at least engaged. I guess there's always Queens.